


wrong side of reality

by daydoodles



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Blood, Borderline Personality Disorder, Cutting, Dissociation, Gen, Intrusive Thoughts, Knives, Self-Harm, Stabbing, The vaguest mention of Pimms to ever exist, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 17:43:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13664043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daydoodles/pseuds/daydoodles
Summary: There's a certain irony that the sharpness of a knife can make the world sharper, too.





	wrong side of reality

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Projecting my intrusive thoughts, self-destructive tendencies and history of self harm on Kent Parson? It's more likely than you think!
> 
> As of right now, this is my solution. Hopefully vent writing kills the urge. We'll see.
> 
> And the title's from [this song](https://youtu.be/xEPZ-Dgh3Tg), because the entirety of Mania is a callout. Thanks, FOB. You get me.

Kent stares at the wall, but he doesn’t see it.

 

What he sees is a knife, sticking out of his left forearm where he’d shoved it in just moments before. What he sees is a river of blood trickling down the blade where it’s broken the skin on the other side of his arm, dripping onto the carpet with every beat of his heart. What he sees is the handle of the knife as it shifts ever so slightly when he moves his right hand away from it, his own marred flesh holding it in place. What he sees is a blur, a watercolour version of the world, because he’s crying.

 

None of it’s real, anyway. Well, the tears are. The knife is, but he’s just holding it, hasn’t done anything with it yet. The blood is, but it’s scabbed over on his cuts from yesterday, little dried bits left around the edges since he never even bothered to clean them. The pain is, because he’s pressing the tip of the knife against his skin, over and over and over, hoping it’ll ease the urge. It doesn’t.

 

 _It’s not enough_ , he thinks, because he hasn’t even drawn any blood, just left a trail of tiny indentations across his skin. What kind of half-assed attempt is that? He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to do, if he’s trying to do anything in particular, but he can’t shake the thought from his brain. He’s been hearing it all day in an endless loop.

 

_Just stab your arm. Right between the bones, all the way through. Do it, you fucking coward. Just stab your arm. Right between the bones, all the way through. Do it, you fucking coward. Just stab -_

 

His phone rings. It distracts him long enough for a glance at the screen. He sees the name, and lets it go to voicemail. The screen flashes with a new text, but he doesn’t read it. He can guess what it says.

 

He drags the knife lightly over his arm, grazing the scabs in a feeble attempt to quiet his mind, but it doesn’t hurt any more than before. Or maybe quiet isn’t what he needs; maybe he’d be better off drowning out the broken record of his thoughts. He wonders if he should turn on some music, turn it up so loud he can’t think at all. It hasn’t worked any other time, but maybe today it will.

 

His phone rings again. He lets it go to voicemail again. He peppers his skin with little notches, dotting the tip of the knife across his arm in a daze. His phone lights up with another text, rings one more time. Then the screen goes dark, and Kent slides it off the bed to get rid of it. It’s too distracting, too overstimulating. It’s not like anyone wants to talk to him, anyway. Not really.

 

He looks down at the knife in his hand, then the rows of cuts scattered haphazardly along the inside of his forearm. He sees an opening, a gap between the wounds, just big enough for the blade to fit through. Kent feels like he’s on fire. He’s on fire, and too big for his body, and it’s making him twitch because he can’t contain himself. His rolls his shoulders, like he always does when he’s fighting an urge, and sighs.

 

He hopes he doesn’t do enough damage to warrant a hospital visit; he’s had enough of hospitals to last him a lifetime. So far, he’s avoided needing stitches, and he’s going on ten years now. Why would this time be any different? Then again, he does tend to favour more of a slash than a stab.

 

Either way, he probably won’t bleed out. It’s a shame.

 

He lays his forearm on his thigh, the thin skin of the inside of his wrist facing up. He can see the veins there, working so hard to pump blood through his body, to keep him alive. He wonders why his brain is trying so hard to sabotage that. He realises he doesn’t actually care.

 

Kent adjusts his grip on the handle, raises the knife, and slams it right in between the barely-healing cuts. For a split second, all he knows is pain; then everything is crystal clear.

**Author's Note:**

> Is this actually a BPD thing? Or is it my bipolar disorder? Or anxiety? Panic disorder? At this point I don't have any idea which mental illness causes this shit. Maybe it's all of them.
> 
> Whatever. My point is, if I need to fix/add to the tags lemme know.


End file.
